Sausage Life 311

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that Damien Hurst once tried to saw in half

READER: Black Friday! I’m so excited!

MYSELF: I imagine you are finding it difficult to contain yourself. What kind of bargain are you looking for?

READER: Anything really, as long as it’s cheaper than when it was overpriced.

MYSELF: According to one of the 10,000 flyers recently crammed through my letterbox, (Black Friday-Now Is The Hour Of Our Discount Tent), camping equipment appears to be hugely popular with bargain-obsessed idiots.

READER: Exactly! Camping equipment! Always at the top of my bargain-hunting list.

MYSELF: Along with?

READER: Along with … erm …I hadn’t really finished my list actually.

MYSELF
: How about these then? High-definition night vision binoculars with built-in drone integration and pre-installed Grand Theft Auto? A snip at £750 the pair, reduced from £1,799.99. Or a solid gold commemorative MAGA golf hat with matching stars & stripes umbrella? Limited edition of 3,000,000 slashed to £2,466 + vat

READER: Trump stuff! Perfect! Luxurious, exotic, yet practical.

MYSELF: Exactly. Although, er… you do realise Black Friday was last Friday don’t you?

READER: Doh!

STORMY MUNDANE
A furious Elton John has complained to the meteorological office about the latest storm to hit the UK. “Why have we not had a Storm Elton?” he has demanded in a full-page ad in The Times co-signed by Bernie Taupin and David Furnish, “And Bert, what kind of a name is that for a storm?”
He went on, “Bert Weedon was a guitarist (from the fifties for god’s sake!) and I mean fair play to him, his guitar tutorial Play in a Day influenced Eric Clapton, Paul McCartney, Jimmy Page and a host of other world-famous British guitarist but how many records did he sell? I have sold like millions of records! What’s wrong with these people?”

TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONING
Donald Trump, US President elect (yes, it’s true!) recently paid a lightening weekend visit to Saudi Arabia to check out the latest execution equipment and also sieze the opportunity to sell the House of Saud some more rockets, tanks, guns and torture equipment. On a day off during the trip he relaxed in Riyadh’s teetotal pub The Amputated Arms with members of Saudi Arabia’s judiciary, where he learned to play the traditional Saudi pub game, Wahabi darts. It is played on a board made out of a flattened human head, and is used to determine which method of execution the courts will decree once the guilty woman has been sentenced.
As a gift to reinforce the special relationship between the USA and the perpetrators of 911, Trump gave Saudi Autocrat Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud an autographed Elon Musk X-shirt (formerly T-shirt), a pewter tankard engraved with a heart entwined in barbed wire and a kilo of frozen sliced dog, an unwanted gift Donald received from Kim Jong-Un during his first term as president after a state visit to the North Korean premier’s Crazy Golf course in Pyongyang. 

BOOKS:
Footballer’s names for Children by Reg Trubshaw  (Nazi Bastard & Capone 12.99)
Many people wrongly suppose that professional footballers are stupid and barely able to string two clichés together, however I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Footballer’s Names for Children, was written by ex-goalkeeping wizard Reg Trubshaw of Upper Dicker Macaroons FC, who is currently serving life in a secure institution for biting off an opponent’s ear and eating it. 

READER: Life? Today’s namby-pamby pink-booted footballers don’t know they are born! When I was a lad we played soccer underwater, in deep-sea diving suits, with itchy woollen underwear, and lead boots. The heavily armed referee and linesmen officiated in a miniature submarine and spectators had to hold their breath for 90 minutes plus injury time. On the other hand, it certainly comes to something when an innocent cannibal going about his unlawful business can be banged up indefinitely in Broadmoor.

MYSELF: Thank you for your invaluable interruption, perhaps we can discuss this on another occasion? Meanwhile, here are Reg’s top ten footballer’s children’s names:-
BOYS: 
Asbo, Wicked, Bet365, Offside, Ebola, Nutmeg, Groinstrain, Asteroid, Grand Theft Auto, Topgun.
GIRLS
Tapestry, Caramel, Wagatha, Handbag, Chlamydia, Casablanca, Tatu, Adultery, Botox.

THE KETTLE POLISHER
A brand new Inspector Twollet Novella

“You’ll polish yourself off one day” said the distorted reflection of Irene Pollock to her husband Stanley as he vigorously applied Brasso to the curvaceous jug of a chromium plated 1959 Pifco, part of his collection of over 2,000 electric kettles.

Mrs Pollock’s talking head disappeared from the kettle and out of earshot momentarily. In the ensuing silence, as she attended to some ironing. Stanley Pollock stopped polishing for a second.

He stared at his own face, reflected like a fisheye lens in the Pifco’s plump, shiny body. If he gripped its tactile Bakelite handle and revolved the base enough to get the angle just right, his face appeared completely symmetrical. And that is just how he would have wanted it, because Stanley Pollock was obsessed with symmetry and order. “
“Tidiness and everything in its rightful place.” his voices would whisper to him. “Side by side, ascending, descending, numerical or alphabetical – that is neither here nor there – it is the symmetrical order that matters” they would insist.
“I might just as well be invisible to you Stanley, The Invisible Woman is what I might as well be. If you spent half as much time on me as you do on those bloody kettles…”
Stan jumped as Mrs Pollock’s rasping, unmodulated tones interrupted his reverie, causing his image to distort alarmingly in the kettle’s shiny chromium body. The sight of his nose, now fat, now thin; in turns bullfrog-bloated, then elongated like Pinocchio’s, began to panic him. “Not right!” his voices shouted at him, “This is not right!”.
Now he caught sight of Irene ironing away, her wobbly image stretching and shrinking behind his, still talking.

“All bloody day, polish, polish, polish. You’ll go blind if you’re not careful…”

Her monologue continued to drone on, warping and bending, like her reflection. “Definitely not right” said one of his voices. The others concurred.

When the police finally gained entry, they found Stanley Pollock kneeling next to a blood-stained iron and fussing over his wife – that is to say, his late wife – whose battered body was lying on the floor in what one officer described as “Kit-form”. Irene’s arms, legs and head had been carefully detached from her torso, and laid out on the floor, where Stanley Pollock was busy rearranging them, symmetrically.

They dusted the iron for fingerprints.

“What made you do it?” enquired Detective inspector Twollet as he handcuffed a tearful Stanley and led him to the waiting police van.

“She told me I’d go blind,” he sobbed, “What does she know about kettles? I know would rather die than be unable to polish my beautiful chromium babies, but who will look after them now?”

“I’ll have a word with the prison governer.” Replied Twollet, with a kindly glint in his eye as he helped Stanley into the van and slammed the door shut.

 

Sausage Life!

 

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

 



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SUPERCALIFUCKINGFRAGIFUCKINGLISTICEXPIALIFUCKINGDOCIOUS

 

 

By Colin Gibson

 

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